


A picture's worth a thousand words?

by huntingosprey



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huntingosprey/pseuds/huntingosprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl decides to follow Sunstreaker's footsteps and be immortalized on canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A picture's worth a thousand words?

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of continuation of a friends 28 situations meme over on LJ, written as a birthday present for her.

“Well?” Jazz hissed into Red Alerts audio “Is it?”

Red growled softly about overeager saboteurs, artistically inclined and fragging persuasive front line warriors, and inexplicably accommodating tacticians as he finished scanning the large parcel that had been delivered to the Ark that morning. The machine beeped and a row of green lights glowed steadily on the board.

“Yes it is, and yes, you can make off with now.” Red grumbled indulgently at the knot of mechs crowding the door.

Jazz whisked the package off the scanner bed before Red had even finished speaking and was pushing through the crowd elbows out protectively hugging the package as close to his bonnet as he could.

Red Alert shook his head and carried on checking the rest of the mail “All this excitement over a painting, Primus prevent anything important happening in the universe today.”

By the time Jazz reached the rec room a large crowd was following him and almost every off duty mech not in the crowd was packed into the room waiting for him. He gently laid the long awaited painting on a table and looked round for a white helmet and red chevron, but Prowl was conspicuous by his absence.

Sunstreaker shouldered to the front of the crowd and stared down with anticipation, he’d employed his twin’s creative charm on several mechs and Pierre had now a whole series of painting of mechs in various historical earth dress to show at his next exhibition. Tracks bewigged and powder in the style of eighteenth century aristocrats had caused him to blow relays he’d laughed so hard, and Ironhide in the cowboy boots and hat had sparked off a party the details of which were still hazy in many CPU’s.

Neither twin had even considered approaching Prowl about the project focussing instead on Bluestreak and Smokescreen; both mechs had turned down the idea. Smokescreen firmly claimed that no costume on earth could possible look good on his colours. Bluestreak just kept avoiding them and on the occasions when he couldn’t do so just kept saying no, Prowl had been sitting apparently absorbed in a book during one of Sideswipes attempts to persuade Blue and had asked the red twin about the idea when Bluestreak had fled the room.

“This artist friend of Sunstreaker wants to do what sort of portrait?” Prowl had asked.

Sideswipe had slumped back in his chair and said mournfully “He’s got some crazy idea about ‘the fusion of human history and the Cybertronian form.’ He talked Sunny into a large sheet and now I’m charged with getting as many mechs as possible to make fools of themselves on canvas.”

Sideswipe had slouched out of the room leaving Prowl alone, he had considered the idea from all angles for a few days and then made a discrete phone call to the artist in question.  
“You want to what?” Prime asked, thumping a hand to one audio just in case he had a dodgy connection.

“I wish to take a two week vacation sir.” Prowl repeated calmly standing at parade rest before Primes desk.

“You. Want. Time. Off?” Prime enunciated each word clearly and carefully just to make sure there was no mistake.

“Yes sir.” Prowl affirmed, inwardly amused at Prime’s reaction “Trailbreaker and Smokescreen are fully briefed and capable of taking over my tactical duties and Jazz is more than able to handle the administrative side.”

“Right, yes, okay.” Prime stuttered processor still reeling at the request. “um, enjoy yourself.”

Prowl stood to attention “Thank you sir.”

News had flown round the Ark at the speed of light that not only was Prowl taking time off but also he was going to France to see Sunstreaker’s artist friend. Prowl had maintained a dignified silence on the matter when questioned and Pierre was just as secretive when Sunstreaker had pressed him for details.

Prowl pulled up the drive way of the large Paris mansion, a man in a paint stained smock was sitting on the steps waiting for him.

“Welcome to France monsieur Prowl.” Pierre greeted him rising from the steps.

Prowl transformed “Thank you monsieur artiste, I hope our time together can be productive for both of us.”

Pierre smiled and gestured towards his studio at the back of the house, “I think it will, I have several drafts of our proposed background finished if you would care to have a look.”

Prowl nodded and followed the painter.

That had been nearly a month ago and every mech in the solar system was curious about the results, Prowl’s only comment on the situation when he returned had been that Pierre would send the finished painting to the Ark for everyone to see.

As Red could testify the daily mail delivery had been closely watched ever since, and any large flat package had been met with the question “is that it?” Now the much awaited painting had arrived and everyone was itching to see it, even Prime loomed largely in the back of the crowd.

Jazz, taking note of the tension and anticipation in the air, drew out the unwrapping process as long as he could. Slowly and carefully untying each knot in the string and rolling it into a small ball before proceeding to the next piece, pealing back the paper and layers of bubble wrap that protected the precious thing from damage while it was in transit. Finally the last layer was lifted off to reveal the back of the picture frame; Jazz lifted it tenderly off the table and turned it so he could see the painted surface.

Mechs would later swear that it was one of a few genuine, certifiable Jazz is speechless moments. A soft, amazed look crossed his face and a small bittersweet smile graced his lips.

“Oh Prowl” Jazz whispered softly and turned the canvas for the rest of the Ark to see.

The painting showed Prowl in an old fashioned Japanese room with low furniture and wide windows, surrounded by scrolls and books. He had been caught in the act of rising from his desk, a half finished poem on the page in front of him. Dressed in a kimono of deep moss green with a subtle pattern of rust maple leaves over it, a white collar rose from under the kimono subtle embroidered with more maple leaves in a very pale green. Embroidered on the front of the kimono in a deep golden shade were a stylized butterfly, a circle with three inward pointing leaves and a spray of curling stalks that ended in small flowers. Below a wide deep red fabric belt that appeared to be tied with a complicated knot at the back a pair of wide pleated white trousers reached towards the floor. Tucked into the belt was a short curved sword with Cybertronian glyphs stitched onto the scabbard in red and purple.

Prowl was half turned, reaching out to a long curved sword with a blood red Autobrand etched into the blade that was standing upright in a dark wooden stand. A complex mix of grief, determination and hope clouding his face, a single tear of coolant was pursuing its path down a cheek seam. His trailing hand still held the brush that he had been using to compose the poem and the tips of his fingers were stain by the blue-black ink betraying the amount of labour he’d been investing in it.

Behind Prowl through the windows and the open door were three cityscapes. The first through the window on his left was instantly recognisable as Praxus at the height of the golden age, surrounded by the dark wood of the doorframe the city burned and crumbled into ruin. The final window showed the city being rebuilt, but not in the same style has it had previously existed, the spires where more organic in shape and a few distinctly earthly design motifs adorned the buildings.

Sunstreaker lent closer, the last line of the poem wasn’t written in the old formal glyphs of the rest of the poem. Almost scrawled across the page in English bleeding ink was the line: ‘It is thy duty oftentimes to do what thou wouldst not; thy duty, too, to leave undone that thou wouldst do’

He suddenly became aware of Prowl standing so close behind him that they were almost exchanging paint; he straightened up turning his head so he could look into Prowl’s optics.

Prowl lent forward slightly and whispered into an audio “Just because I’m good at war doesn’t mean I like or approve of it.”

Sunstreaker dipped his head slightly, Prowl may still be a stick up the aft officer but with this painting he’d shown a side to himself not normally seen by the mechs he commanded. Sunstreaker felt privileged to have had a hand in helping it to happen and to have seen the results. He wouldn’t treat the tactician any differently and didn’t expect to be treated differently but there was more of an understanding between them than there had been before, a bond created by war, duty and a small human painter.


End file.
